


Repainted

by rosebud1000



Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, also on FFN, i rewrote something that's a few years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebud1000/pseuds/rosebud1000
Summary: Recovering from depression is hard. Returning to the things you once loved is part of that. It's time for Clary to start drawing again, but it's not as easy as it may seem.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Jace Wayland
Kudos: 10





	Repainted

Clary stared at the blank paper. She picked up a pencil. She set it back down. How was she supposed to draw? She had absolutely no inspiration, and hardly any motivation. And she hadn’t drawn in months. Which was actually the reason she was trying to draw. To give herself a “creative emotional outlet.” Not that she was entirely sure what that meant, but the least she could do was try, since they were paying for therapy.

Faces. She used to draw faces a lot. She wondered if she could draw Simon. That might be nice. A circle. That was how to start. A line down the center, then a jaw, and ears. There. Maybe this would work. But… the proportions were off. What were the right proportions? She couldn’t remember. And it looked bland. Numb, maybe. She felt pain in her arm. She looked down to find she’d dug her nails into the skin there. She released her grip, leaving little red indents behind. At least she wasn’t bleeding.

“Whatcha doing?” Jace asked.

She looked up, tried to smile for him, even the tiniest bit. It wasn’t a smile, though, and he saw through her attempt in a heartbeat.

“Oh, baby,” he said, and sat down next to her. He hugged her, and wiped away a tear she hadn’t even felt fall.

“I’m trying to draw.”

“Yeah? That’s good.”

“I don’t- I don’t think I can.”

“Okay… that’s okay.” He moved the sketchbook from her lap and massaged her shoulders. “You don’t have to be perfect. No one said this would be easy.” 

She sighed and leaned into him. It was so good he was there. She was so lucky to have him. He was stuck with her. No, wait. That was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to “entertain negative thoughts.” She was so lucky to have him, and he loved her. She hoped. Because really, she was a mess. Who would want her as a girlfriend? Damnit. She really had to stop doing that.

Jace moved his legs onto the bed and laid down. He was hugging her still, so she had little choice but to follow. They laid on the covers, his body curled around hers. Even with this safety, it took her hours to fall asleep.

… 

She didn’t wake up until nearly one the next day. After so many hours of sleeping, she had to drag herself out of bed. At least she managed to do that. And shower. She did that, too. But she didn’t wash her face, or put on mascara, or any of the other things she used to do.

When she came downstairs, her hair was still dripping water, and she felt like she was moving sluggishly, like time had slowed down.

“Good morning,” Jace greeted her. How did he always sound so happy?

She mumbled a response, filled a glass with water, and took her pill.

“Want a muffin?” He nudged forward a brown paper bag. “I couldn’t help but stop at the bakery this morning. It smelled so good. And they had pumpkin muffins- those are your favourite, right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She took it out of the bag and broke off a piece.

“And I was thinking, maybe you should get new art stuff. I dunno, just start new, or something. Don’t famous artists have different periods in their art? Like, everyone always talks about Picasso’s Green Period."

“It’s Blue Period. And yeah.” Clary nibbled at the muffin.

“Exactly.”

The muffin was crumbly. It’d probably be better warm. It tasted very cinnamony. She liked cinnamon. Just maybe not that much. She ate another bite of it. Jace had gotten it for her. As a nice surprise. Which it was. But maybe she looked like she wasn’t enjoying it. She picked it up and bit off a mouthful. Now her mouth was dry, and there were crumbs on her face.

“Coffee?” Jace asked, holding out a mug. She nodded.

… 

“Stay here?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, glancing around at the scarecrows and metal turkeys. Thanksgiving had exploded in the front of the store. A few lonely fake crows sat in a clearance display, leftover from Halloween.

Clary walked down the aisles, stopping when she found the one lined with sketchbooks. She opened one, and then closed it. And then stepped back and stared. There was so much paper. 100% recycled, tinted gray, tinted tan, textured, smooth. Spiral-bound, hand-sewn, black leather covers and yellow cardstock flaps. And there was watercolor paper. She picked it up. It was heavy and sturdy, and she ran her hand along the uneven surface.

When she returned to Jace, she had found watercolors, brushes, paper, and a palette.

“Watercolor?” he said.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ve used them for years.”

“I’ve never seen you. Is this all you want?”

Clary nodded.

“Good. Cause I’m pretty sure that stuffed turkey is giving me the evil eye.”

“Are you afraid of all birds now?” She started for the register.

“No. And ducks aren’t trustworthy,” Jace said, following her. She rolled her eyes.

…

Clary liked the way the paints exploded into each other, spreading and bleeding across the page. She knew a thousand YouTube tutorials would tell her otherwise, that she wanted control over her paper and fine details, but it was spontaneous and exciting and forced her to create without knowing the end product. And it felt good to be creating again. It felt relieving and freeing and relaxing. She didn’t know how she’d kept so much emotion hidden for so long, buried under the numbness of depression.

The face she ended up with wasn’t perfect. It was warped, the lips were uneven, the eyes were terribly blotchy and lacked detail.

But it was hers, and it was colorful and so much much better than anything she’s made in years.

Painting—putting her heart on the paper was tiring as well. Her fingers ached from holding the paintbrush, her blinks began to lengthen as her eyes grew weary of staring at the page. She washed the brushes lethargically, swirling the bristles against her palm, waiting for the water to run clear of suds and paint. She glanced into the mirror and wiped a patch of blue from her nose.

Jace was already in bed, the blankets up to his chin. Clary crawled in beside him. She leaned in, curling around him, her nose tapping his shoulder. She reached up, her fingers closing around his wrinkled shirt. He mumbled and settled into her.

She fell asleep quickly, something that was becoming a more and more common occurrence.

…

Clary woke up at ten the next morning, to the customary  _ went on a run _ note from Jace. She knew his habits well enough to expect it, but this morning, the note made her smile.

She gathered jeans and a sweater from her drawers, then turned into the bathroom. She scrutinized her own reflection, poking her nose where prussian blue had left a stain. She didn’t really mind, and if she was remembering correctly, that’s a sign of high-quality pigments.

She twisted her hair up into a bun, pulls herself out of the sweatpants and tanktop from the day before, and steps into the shower.

The blue stain had faded when she stepped back out, a pale blue that matched her sweater. Barely-damp curls fell onto her shoulders, striking against the color.  _ Complementary colors.  _ Color theory, she suspected, had rested in the back of her mind for far too long. She was glad she’d found a way to put it to use.

She started a pot of coffee downstairs, then sat at the table and waited. For Jace, and caffeine.

“You’re up!” he greeted her, pushing open the door.

She motioned to the coffee pot. “It’s almost done.”

“Perfect.” Jace pulled mugs from the cabinet, setting a bag on the table. “I saw your painting this morning. I like it. It feels like you.”

Clary nodded, not sure how much of a compliment that was.

Jace placed a coffee in front of her, sitting down across from her with his own. He gestured to the bag. “Open it.”

She did so, pulling out another muffin.

“Blueberry, this time. I wasn’t sure how much you liked the cinnamon one.”

“Thank you,” she said, inspecting it and peeling away the wrapper. It was still warm, and sweet-but-not-too-sweet. The blueberries were just tart enough and left purple juice on her lips. She put the muffin back on its wrapper, then broke off a piece and held it out to Jace.

He ate it straight from her hand, eyes shining. “Mmm. Thanks.”

“It’s a good muffin,” Clary said. She made to move back, but Jace had tangled their hands together, and was tugging gently for her to lean across the table.

She did so, which brought their faces close. He smiled and kissed her. Clary smiled, too.  _ He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t like me, now would he?  _ Any small triumph over her thoughts was one she was willing to take.

He held onto her hand, their breaths still mingling. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She wanted to paint them like this: leaning over the kitchen table, swapping muffins and coffee and kisses and  _ I love you’s _ . She wanted to go back to the art store today and buy some pens, so she could outline in an illustrative style. 

She caught Jace’s other hand as he reached for the rest of her muffin, him laughing at being caught. Maybe she’d join him on his run tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is something from a few years ago that I've been bugging myself over the ending for. I changed the second half pretty drastically. If you'd like to see the original, click [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13212900/2/Repainted). For now, thanks for reading!
> 
> -rosebud


End file.
